


Ficlets

by msdisdain



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bad Puns, Christmas, Declarations Of Love, First Kiss, Fluff, Light Bondage, Love Confessions, M/M, Overheard Conversations, Potterlock, Sherlock Holmes and Bees, Spanking, always johnlock, cranky Lestrade, crime scene hilarity, tumblr ficlets
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-11
Updated: 2016-09-09
Packaged: 2018-07-14 10:06:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 9,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7166789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/msdisdain/pseuds/msdisdain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a collection of ficlets originally posted on Tumblr. Each chapter will be a different story. Tags and rating will change accordingly as we go along. (I'm @mzdisdain on Tumblr.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. This Is How It Happens

In the end, it happens with neither a bang not a whimper. 

There is no dramatic moment. No one is leaving; no one is dying; no one is marrying anyone else. Later, when asked how it happens, it is not a story that will embarrass either of them to tell. It is, in fact, barely a story at all. 

The day is not one of significance (though it is about to become one). It is nothing more than an ordinary London Tuesday, gray with threatening rain, a hint of winter chill still clinging to the beginnings of spring. 

Of all the ways he has envisioned (fantasized about) it happening over the years, the reality doesn’t match any of them. 

He wakes in his room at Baker Street on this insignificant Tuesday and realizes gratefully that there had been no nightmares. He dresses for the guest lecturer position Mike had gotten him at Bart’s. When he finds the flat empty he eats his toast, drinks his tea, and goes to work in the morning mist. He lectures (enjoying it more than he'd ever imagined); he answers questions; he declines Molly’s lunch invitation and promises to catch up next week instead. 

He climbs the stairs to the flat, a bag of sandwiches in his hand, and stops in the open doorway. 

(This is when it happens.)

A hazy, feeble beam of light struggles through the window and lands on his flatmate’s hair, and in that moment, he knows that they cannot wait any longer. The time has come, and nothing else can happen until this does. 

He crosses to the far end of the coffee table and lowers first the sandwiches and then himself down. He is greeted with a level, mildly curious gaze from the eyes he knows better than any others. 

“You're in love with me.”

One quick inhale, and then: “Yes.”

“How long?”

“Always.”

He reaches out and long fingers wrap around his own and hold on. It is the last sliver of courage he needs. “Me too. I love you.”

Two smiles. Two locked hands. Two mouths meeting tentatively. Two foreheads pressed together. 

In the end, this is how it happens.


	2. We Don't Have a Fandom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by #setlock, which I have been obsessed with.

“ _Jesus Christ, not again!_ ”

At Greg’s abrupt outburst from behind him, John looked away from the body they were crouched beside and swiveled to look. He barely concealed his eye roll as he turned his attention back to the inspection he’d been performing. He could hear Greg’s voice raised in the background, saying things like “They realize this is an actual murder, right?” and “Donovan, so help me, if one of them puts a finger over the tape…” and “What a fucking nightmare.”

“What did Anderson do now?” Sherlock murmured, busy in the man’s coat pockets.

“Oh, you can’t deduce with the eyes in the back of your head, or the scent on the air?” John grinned as Sherlock wrinkled his nose.

“It is easy to dismiss the sense of smell when determining--”

“Shut up, you git. Your fan club’s here again. Do they all have police scanners now?”

Sherlock looked momentarily pleased, and then scoffed. “John. Don’t be ridiculous. They’re all on Twitter. The most devoted all seem to be on Tumblr, but so many of them post the same things that I don’t follow along there as much as I’d like.” He stood, brushing the knees of his trousers off with gloved hands, and crossed to Greg, beginning to outline his observations.

John turned his attention to the fairly large, quietly murmuring crowd, which had formed seemingly out of nowhere. This was starting to happen more and more frequently with crimes committed in public. One or two people tracked the police - they even knew which car was Greg’s - and waited to see if Sherlock and John showed up. Then some sort of electronic notice would go out, and the fans would appear. Fans. At crime scenes. As long as they stayed behind the tape, there wasn’t anything the Met could legally to do get rid of them. The officers had taken to quickly erecting black tents around the more grisly scenes - if they didn’t, pictures of dead people ended up on Twitter and families started talking about lawsuits.

It made Greg crazy.

It made John cranky.

It made Sherlock _incandescent_. More than once Donovan had snarked about putting a red carpet along the tape line, but Sherlock just brushed her aside as usual.

“The public is interested in my methods, John. Who am I to deny them their chance to expand their tiny minds?”

John just stood back muttering about overinflated egos and delusions of grandeur, watching in disbelief as Sherlock greeted young women and men with cartoon hearts in their eyes (some wearing deerstalkers), signed copies of newspaper articles they thrust at him, and, wearing his most insincere smile...posed for selfies.

_Selfies_.

Mrs. Hudson thought the whole thing was hilarious and wonderful and had cleared a shelf in 221A to keep all the things people kept thrusting into Sherlock’s hands - tiny knitted versions of him and John; letters filled with theories on recent crimes; and, her absolute favorite, hand drawn pictures of the detective and his blogger. Sherlock pretended to hate it but secretly loved it. John pretended to hate it and absolutely had not tucked a small set of felt Sherlock and John dolls away in his top drawer.

When John finally managed to pull Sherlock away from the crowd, he threw an apologetic look at the still annoyed Greg as they walked in the opposite direction. Sherlock was already on his phone, and John could see he had Twitter open.

“Please tell me you aren’t answering their Tweets now.”

“Of course not, John! I’m just putting in a search for the new hashtag so I can look at everything later.”

This time John’s eye roll was not disguised. “Do I even want to know?”

“#crimelock.”

“That’s one of the stupidest things I’ve ever heard.”

“Don’t mock the fandom, John.”

“We do not have a fandom, Sherlock.”

“Oh, but we do. Wait until we get home, and I’ll show you the erotic stories they’re writing about us.”

". . ."


	3. Distractions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Sherlock wakes John in the middle of the night, surprising things happen.

Sherlock wakes him in the middle of the night and though he is clumsy with the fastenings of his clothes, he is fully awake by the time their feet hit the pavement. It's 3:30 am and the thief has finally made a reappearance, and they are meeting Lestrade and his team at the museum to make the catch.

Except of course Sherlock knows a back way into this museum, has figured out how to jimmy the lock to a sanitation closet that has both an outside wall and an air duct just big enough to crawl through if you're either a lanky consulting detective or a doctor who hasn't been eating enough as of late. By 4:30 Sherlock is cradling a bruised face while John sits on the suspect, knowing that the tripped alarm will bring Lestrade and his raised voice soon enough.

By 8 am they've received their lecture, given their statements, filled out their paperwork and handed a check by the sour-faced accounts payable clerk. Yawning, John walks out of the Met behind Sherlock, who hails a cab with his usual ease. He is surprised, however, when Sherlock gives a strange address instead of directing the driver to take them home.

“Breakfast, John!”

And so begins one of the oddest days of John’s life. Sherlock is extraordinarily good company but steadfastly ignores any hints John drops about fancying a nap. They go from an excellent Mediterranean breakfast to a private walking tour of an exhibit of historic medical oddities at the V&A. They lunch at a hole in the wall ramen place where Sherlock orders a massive meal in flawless Japanese and gets them both tipsy on afternoon sake. Then they go to a double feature, of all things--two Hitchcock films--before finishing up the day with a late dinner and drinks at a pub so small and cramped John can't believe Sherlock can fit his legs under the table. They laugh and talk of nothing in particular, and when they finally return to Baker Street just after midnight, John is completely exhausted and a little befuddled, but happy. He's only been back at 221B for six weeks, and there's been more than a handful of awkward moments as he and Sherlock adjust to living together again. Today had been the first day things truly felt right again, he reflects, as he thanks Sherlock and wearily turns toward the stairs. He realizes that for once, he hasn’t thought about Mary or the baby once that day.

_The baby._

John freezes in place, glancing down at the date on his watch, and then slowly turns around to look at Sherlock. “It was Father’s Day.”

“I thought a distraction might be…sensible.”

Sherlock’s tone is smooth, but John can see uncertainty in his friend’s eyes now. “Sensible.” He repeats.

Sherlock nods. “I thought if I kept you busy...well. I wanted to...help.”

John takes a step closer. “You did. I didn't think about them all day,” he admits. He pictures them now, Mary and the baby who wasn't his, and wonders again where Mycroft had stashed them, though John had made the elder Holmes promise never to tell him. He closes his eyes briefly, indulging in a thought of how his first Father’s Day might have gone if things had turned out differently.

When he opens them again, Sherlock’s face is shadowed with regret.

“I'm sorry, John. I shouldn't have made the decision for you. I just…” Sherlock’s sentence peters out as John takes another step closer.

“Wanted to help.” There is a warmth stirring in John’s chest, brought to life by this man who planned an entire crazy jam packed day so that John wouldn't be hurt. He takes the last step to close the distance and carefully slides his arms around Sherlock’s waist, leaning his forehead against the taller man’s shoulder. “You did, Sherlock. You do. You do.”

Sherlock wraps his arms around John’s back, tentatively at first, then with more surety as John holds on. They stand there embracing in the darkened sitting room, and after several minutes, John chuckles into his shoulder.

“How did you arrange for the attempted theft?”

Sherlock is now resting his cheek on the top of John’s head, and John can feel him smile. “Never underestimate the homeless network’s ability to spread a rumor, John.”

John laughs out loud, but then stills in Sherlock’s arms, turning his face up to meet Sherlock’s gaze. It is, all at once, the simplest thing in the world to bring their mouths together in a brief, warm press of lips.

“Thank you,” John says, pushing his face into Sherlock’s neck, brushing a kiss there, and holding on. It feels like a promise, and a beginning, and a confirmation, and it's all that's necessary in that moment. “Thank you.”


	4. Let It Bee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To understand this ficlet, you should read this article on the [London Pollinator Project](http://www.telegraph.co.uk/science/2016/06/20/spot-the-bee-scientists-release-hundreds-of-numbered-bees-in-lon/).
> 
> If you could gift a single chapter, this one would be for [cwb](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/cwb), who posted that charming article to tumblr.

John had been sitting in his chair with paper and tea for nearly an hour when Sherlock finally emerged from the bath, wrapped in a clean dressing gown of blue silk and smelling, as always, of absurdly overpriced hair product and body wash. The lanky detective dropped a kiss on the top of John’s head as he passed, and John turned his head to better appreciate the rear view as Sherlock continued into the kitchen.

“I made you a cuppa, but it'll be cold by now.”

“Mmmm.”

John heard Sherlock pick up the cup and put it back down abruptly, followed by the sound of the stove clicking on. He waited until he heard a chair slide out from the table before folding the paper back to the article he'd read earlier, picking up his mostly empty cup, and joining Sherlock in the kitchen. He dropped the paper face-up between them as he set his cup down and sat down on the other side of the table. “Seen the paper yet, love?”

Sherlock raised a brow at him and John easily translated it into _You know perfectly well I haven't._

“There's an update on the London Pollinator Project--that thing where they put the little license plates on bees to make them easier to track, remember?” John kept his face carefully blank as Sherlock stilled completely.

“Is there?”

“You remember they were running that contest, for the best pictures of the bees? Turns out it ended early, and with something of a surprise.”

Sherlock was suddenly engrossed in picking invisible lint off of his dressing gown. “Did it?”

“Turns out some anonymous citizen tracked down all 500 bees in the first two days and uploaded the pictures and data to a private website. The scientists are hailing the effort, but there's a bit of a public uproar over...hang on, I want to get this right…’spoiling the most fun offered to amateur melittologists in a decade or more.’ The London Apiology Enthusiasts seem to be quite up in arms about it.” John folded his arms and sat back, waiting. Sherlock met his gaze evenly across the table, but John could see a tiny twitch at the corner of one eye. “Tell me again, love; how were those two days you spent at your parents’ house?”

Sherlock opened his mouth, closed it again, and then abruptly stood, presumably heading for the kettle. John reached out, snagged his lover by the wrist, and pulled in just such a way that Sherlock tumbled into his lap. Sherlock immediately tucked his face away into John’s neck, and John chuckled, running a hand through the curls brushing his face. “Why didn't you just tell me what you were doing, you great git?”

Sherlock’s response was muffled by John’s skin, but sounded like “seemed silly.”

John's brow creased and his face grew serious. He pulled on the curls gently until Sherlock raised his head and looked at him. Sure enough, red stained the alabaster cheeks. “Sherlock. You're a scientist. You research things. You experiment. You filled the tub with live fish last week. Why on earth would you think spending a couple of days tracking down bees would be silly?”

“19 hours, 42 minutes.”

John’s mouth fell open, and he could feel Sherlock relax a little as he saw it. “You found 500 bees in under 20 hours?” His face broke into a grin. “Show-off.”

Sherlock’s mouth began to stretch into a smile. “Could have done it faster if I didn't have to keep texting you with false questions from Mummy.”

John burst out laughing. “Brat.” He reached up and cupped Sherlock’s face in his hand, rubbing his thumb over his mouth before bringing their mouths together. “I can see why you did it anonymously.”

“I was going to tell you, John. I didn't think they'd publish the news so quickly. And I didn't want…”

“A swarm of would-be detectives storming the flat and calling for your head?”

“Something like that.” Sherlock wrinkled his nose. “Swarm, John? Really?”

John grinned. “I combed through my vocabulary for the best word.” At Sherlock’s groan, the grin grew wider. “Your dislike of my word choice really stings, Sherlock.” John evaded Sherlock’s mouth, which was attempting to stifle his words. “Hopefully the buzz over this dies down soon.”

Sherlock finally succeeded in bringing their mouths together, and John let him kiss the puns into silence for several minutes. Finally, they pulled apart, and Sherlock laced their fingers together.

“John?”

“Yes, honey?”

“Please, just...let it bee.”


	5. No More Waiting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John comes home.

Sherlock was impatiently rocking back and forth on his feet in front of the window when the cab finally pulled up to the curb. He watched John get out, watched the cabbie help him lift two suitcases to the ground, and watched John shoulder a large backpack (green, left over from his Army days) as the cab pulled away. He should go down and help; that’s what people did. At the very least he should open the door, even though John still had his keys. Or maybe he should just wait in the flat, ready to welcome John home with all the unfamiliar giddiness that was coursing through him.

Except John was looking up at him now, unmoving except for the clenching of his left hand. Sherlock lifted a hand, wanting to make sure John knew he’d seen him, but John still didn’t move to come in. The sun was bright that afternoon, and it was hard to discern the exact expression on his face. The giddiness in Sherlock was slowing down, slipping away. What could be the matter? John was here. He’d brought his things. He wouldn’t have done that if he had changed his mind.

Why couldn’t Sherlock deduce this?

He watched John slip his hand into his pocket and pull out his phone, and seconds later, Sherlock’s phone was ringing.

“Are you going to sleep on the sidewalk?” he asked, trying to keep his tone light. He couldn’t hear anything on the other end of the line except John’s breathing, though, and he could see John below, turning his head to look first one way down the street, and then the other. “John. Tell me--”

“This is where it all went wrong, Sherlock,” John said, and his voice was both forceful and tight. “Me, below. You, above. And a phone call. This is where it all went wrong.”

The giddiness was completely gone, now. The only thing left in Sherlock was a slow-building anxiety. 

“We died that day, Sherlock,” John pressed on, a rasp edging his words now. “We died, and it almost killed me, and I can’t do it again.” Sherlock watched helplessly as John raised his other hand and scrubbed at his cheek. “I thought I could do this, that we could do this--”

“John, we can--”

“I’m scared.” Sherlock could hear in John’s voice just how much it had taken for him to admit that, and his eyes burned hot as he lifted a hand and placed it palm out on the windowpane. 

“Me too,” Sherlock admitted, and John huffed out a broken laugh. “But...I think...John, I’m more scared of what happens if you don’t come in.”

John pinched the bridge of his nose (trying to stop further tears) and shook his head a little. “I wish we could go back. Before everything went wrong. Before you...and before I…” Another laugh, this one more like a sob. “I made you wait, Sherlock. I don’t know--how could you possibly--”

“You’re still making me wait, John,” Sherlock managed, and this time when John laughed, it had more strength behind it. 

“I am, aren’t I. Christ, I don’t know what’s gotten into--” John shook his head again, staring down at the ground, and still he made no further move toward the door. Sherlock’s heart cracked wide open, and he knew what to do. It might not be what people did, but it would be what he would do.

“Stay exactly where you are. Don’t move.” As he moved away from the window, he saw John’s head snap up, but he was already thumbing off his phone and leaping toward the stairs. Barely ten seconds later he had flung open the door to Baker Street and was standing in front of John on the sidewalk. 

“You said that--”

“I know. I wanted to say it...and then come to you. Please come in, John.” Sherlock lifted a hand carefully and touched John’s cheek, very lightly. “I made you wait, too.”

“We’re both idiots.” John’s hand came up to cover Sherlock’s, and they stood there for a long moment, just looking at each other. Sherlock was afraid to move, afraid to say anything else. Even now he could hardly believe John was standing in front of him, suitcases at hand. Almost home. He gathered the last of his courage for one final push.

“No more waiting, John.” 

John’s eyes were wet and his fingers tightened over Sherlock’s. “No more waiting.” And then he leaned in, or Sherlock leaned in, and he let his eyes slide shut and…

“Sherlock, are you going to just let John stand out here?”

Their eyes snapped open at Mrs. Hudson’s voice, and John’s mouth curled in a rueful grin. “More waiting.”

“Only measured in minutes this time,” murmured Sherlock, and his eyes shone with promises. He bent down and picked up John’s suitcases, gesturing him forward with his head. John accepted Mrs. Hudson’s hug and started up the stairs as Sherlock stepped into the front hallway, reaching behind him and closing the door firmly on the past.


	6. Forward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, there's nowhere else to go.

“I think we need to talk.”

John froze, mug halfway to his lips. He’d been waiting for this conversation since he showed up on Sherlock’s doorstep (not their doorstep, not anymore) last night with a hastily packed duffel and hope in his heart. Sherlock had welcomed him in quickly enough, but had retired rather early to his room, leaving John alone and a little sad in the sitting room. John had gone up to bed shortly after, both gratified to find that his bedroom was exactly as he had left it and worried that this return to 221B wasn’t going to be anything like what he had imagined it could be.

“Okay,” he said quietly, putting his mug down on the kitchen table and looking up to face Sherlock.

Who looked like he hadn’t slept in a week, let alone last night.

John’s heart sank further.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock,” he said quietly, his hands gripping the mug tightly. “I shouldn’t have presumed. I shouldn't have just shown up here last night. I don’t--I know I can’t expect things to just go back to like they used to be, for us to go back to how we used to be.”

“No, you can't.” Sherlock’s face was carefully blank, his voice steady and even. “It can’t be like that, John, not ever again.”

_ I will not cry, _ John thought as his eyes suddenly burned, and he closed them and willed the tears back. This was what he had expected, after all - that Sherlock would not want him, had never wanted him. That too many things had passed between them for them to ever go back. That John had burned so many bridges Sherlock couldn’t even see the shore anymore. It hadn’t stopped him from dreaming and hoping over the last month, but he should have realized that those dreams and hopes were just a waste of time. Perhaps if John went away for awhile longer, Sherlock might see his way through to being good friends again. It would be enough.

It would have to be enough.

“John.”

John opened his eyes, startled by the closer proximity of Sherlock’s voice, and looked up to see that the detective had quietly moved around the table while John was trying to regain control of himself. As John watched, Sherlock dropped down to his knees beside the chair and slowly, carefully placed one hand over John’s.

“We can’t go back, John. But I didn't say anything about not being able to go forward.”

John gaped at him in astonishment, his heart cracking back open. “Sherlock--”

Sherlock shook his head just once, his face still neutral. “There’s only one bedroom in this flat that’s open to you any longer, John, and it’s not the one upstairs. I--” His voice cracked, just a little, and he cleared his throat before going on. “I’ve been wrong about this before, but I don’t think I am now. I think you've decided that we don’t have to wait anymore.”

John swallowed thickly around the lump expanding in his throat and slid his hand over Sherlock’s. He watched in rapidly expanding joy as Sherlock’s stillness fractured, and a smile pulled at the edges of his impossibly beautiful mouth.

“No, Sherlock. We don’t have to wait anymore.”

There would be more, very soon. There would be the shattering of walls, and the crashing of resistance, and the sighs of contentment. But right now there were just two hearts and two hands softly brushing against one another in the pale London morning, while all around them a city began its day, never knowing that within the four walls of one flat the entire world was different.


	7. Right Down Santa Claus Lane

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This wasn't how the party was supposed to end.

“I think we're going to be trapped in here awhile.”

Molly groaned in frustration at Greg’s pronouncement and dropped onto the edge of Sherlock and John’s bed with a huff. “Maybe they won't notice if we just slip out?” she asked, even as she knew that was impossible. She and Greg had been the last two guests at the Christmas party when the low level sniping Sherlock and John had been engaging into a full-on fight. With a glance they’d mutually agreed it was time to leave the flatmates alone, but by the time they’d located their coats in the downstairs bedroom, the shouting had begun.

“Sherlock won’t notice? Do you really want to be the focus of Sherlock’s angry attention as we cut through their argument on our way out? If there was a safe way out of this flat via the window, I’d be suggesting we take it.” Greg sank down next to her, defeated.

“Maybe you could text him, say there’s a case?”

“From inside his own bedroom? And then he’d expect there to be, you know, an actual case.”

Molly sighed. “Good point.”

They sat in silence for awhile, both listening and trying not to listen to the muffled shouts from the other side of the door. Well, Sherlock appeared to be doing most of the shouting, though John did seem to be holding his own.

“Any idea what they’re fighting about?” Molly asked.

Greg shrugged. “I’d imagine if you were in a relationship with Sherlock Holmes, there’d be no end of things to get pissed about.” He stiffened slightly, and then turned to her. “I’m sorry, Molly; I didn’t mean to talk about that.”

Molly waved a hand in the air. “He’s gay. Picking the gay ones seems to be my thing. I had a good cry when I found out and then did my best to get over myself.”

“Dodged a bullet, you did,” Greg grinned at her, nudging her with his elbow. “I mean, it can’t be a picnic, living with that brain and that mouth all the time.” A shout of some kind came through the door, followed by a series of lower sounds. “Wait. Molly, was that--”

Molly put her hands over her mouth, eyes wide, and giggled nervously. “You don’t think that they’d--not while we’re--”

Out in the sitting room, something thumped to the floor, and the unmistakable sound of a moan made its way through the door.

“Oh, fuck no,” Greg groaned, burying his head in his hands while Molly flushed crimson and kept giggling. “No, no, no. My Christmas Eve is _not_ supposed to end with listening to _John Watson and Sherlock bloody Holmes_ bugger each other in front of a roaring fire while you and I are stuck in their bedroom with our coats and no way out.”

They both did their best to cover their ears and persevere, despite the growing volume of noise. “These are things I never wanted to know,” Greg said through gritted teeth.

“John doesn’t surprise me, but who knew Sherlock would be the one on the--”

“MOLLY.” Greg leaped up, shooting Molly--who was now laying back on the bed, her whole body shaking, her hands clasped over her mouth to muffle her laughter--an aggrieved look before kneeling down on the floor and poking around under the bed. After a minute or so, he pulled something out into the open.

“Yes!” He said with a little pump of his fist, showing her the fire ladder.

“Greg, I’m wearing heels!”

“It doesn’t sound like they’re going to slow down anytime soon. Is this really where you want to be when Father Christmas comes?” There was a beat of silence, and then, realizing what he’d said, he started to laugh. Their combined laughter must have finally been heard by the occupants of the sitting room, because there was suddenly a series of footsteps rushing past the bedroom hallway and up the stairs. Still snickering, Greg and Molly grabbed their coats and fled into the night.


	8. Disobey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of course Sherlock can't--or won't--follow directions.

“Is there a reason you're naked in my bed?”

Sherlock shivered involuntarily at the low rasp of John’s voice, arching his back as a firm hand smoothed down his spine. He opened his mouth to answer, but let out a sharp cry instead as John’s hand lifted and came down, hard, on the left side of his arse.

“John,” he managed to gasp after the first blow was followed with three more in rapid succession.

“I thought my texts were quite clear, Sherlock.” John’s tone was even, and anyone else but Sherlock might have called it conversational. Of course, anyone else would have looked at John Watson, with his jumpers and his blog and his placid expressions and seen no threat. “Our bed; the black silk briefs; the blindfold. I wasn't aware I had made a request, and yet you seem to have taken my instructions as optional.”

Sherlock didn't just see the threat, he  _ craved _ it.

“I was already up here when you sent them,” he said, breath hitching as John ran his fingernails over the reddened flesh. “Didn't feel like moving.” The carelessness of his tone belied the racing of his heart. There was no predicting what John might do when this mood came over him.

It was  _ glorious. _

Then John let out a low, humorless chuckle, and Sherlock’s pulse skyrocketed. It had been an even worse day than he'd deduced, then. He knew exactly what John needed, and he rolled over onto his back, reaching up and holding onto the bed rails. As John--pupils blown wide, jaw set--made quick work of knotting the ropes around Sherlock’s wrists, Sherlock stretched his neck out in a gesture of submission, his eyes hungrily roaming the length of John’s body before settling on his rapidly swelling cock.

“If you'd read more carefully,” John grunted, pulling the ropes tighter, “you'd have learned that is is not a day on which you want to fuck with me.” Sherlock opened his mouth and John shoved three fingers inside, causing the detective to gag and splutter before gaining control and beginning to suck. “I'm not in the mood for your mouth to do anything but what it’s currently doing.” He watched Sherlock’s mouth awhile, tracing a finger through the saliva that began to drip around his fingers. “Fuck, that's gorgeous. You're so pretty when your mouth is full of me.”

After another minute John pulled his fingers free and crawled onto the bed, straddling Sherlock’s chest, and bent to kiss him. “I love you,” he breathed, pressing lingering kisses to temples and forehead. “For this, and for everything.” He returned to Sherlock’s mouth and the kiss became sloppy, John’s teeth first grazing and then tugging at each of Sherlock’s lips in turn. Sherlock groaned low in his throat and pulled against the ropes, but John had learned to tie knots in the British Army and they both knew there would be no escape.

“Now,” said John, sitting back on his heels, “Let's talk about your inability to follow directions, my love,” and as his fingers twisted Sherlock’s nipples, hard, they both gasped with the knowledge and satisfaction that each was getting exactly what they had hoped for.


	9. Tell Me a Secret

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will Sherlock give up his final secret to John?

“Tell me a secret.”

“That seems to violate the rules.”

“How the fuck does it ‘violate the rules’?” John’s air quotes were unsteady, but considering that they were two-thirds of the way into the bottle of scotch, that was no surprise.

“It is both truth and dare, John. One invalidates the other. Ask something else.”

John waggled his finger. “Nope. I mean it in a...truthy way.”

“If I'm going to play this ridiculous game, you cannot make up words.”

“It's my turn and I can do whatever I like and I like ‘truthy.’ I shall submit it to Oxford. Uh uh,” John said as Sherlock opened his mouth. “Still my turn. You've got to tell me something true that I don't already know. Or that nobody knows. Tell me a secret, Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock, face carefully blank, took a long drink. John waved a hand in the air impatiently. “Fine. I...wanted to ice skate for Great Britain when I was six.”

“Not a secret. Try again.”

“What? That is most certainly a secret.” At John’s raised eyebrow, Sherlock narrowed his eyes and thought a moment before huffing out annoyance. “Mummy.”

“Yep,” agreed John cheerfully. “The family photo albums are  _ very _ informative.”

“Then surely between Mummy and Mycroft, you have heard everything by now.”

“Are you telling me all of your secrets are in your parents’ house?” When Sherlock said nothing, John reached out with one bare foot and nudged his knee, hard. “Not buying it. Not even a little.” He kicked at Sherlock’s knee again and Sherlock caught his foot and held on. “Oh, lovely. I'll just put the other one up, shall I?” And before Sherlock could react, John had crossed one leg over the other, and now both of his feet were in Sherlock’s lap.

Sherlock swallowed as John flexed, and his toes brushed Sherlock’s thighs. Sherlock put both of his hands on top of them to still the motion, and tried to keep his face impassive. He could sit there with John’s bare feet in his lap. It was fine. He was fine. It was all fine.

Except there was still the question of the bloody secret. And John knew all of his already. All but one, and that one was going untold.

He would have to lie, he thought, as John sloshed more scotch into both of their glasses. He was very good at it. He would have to break his promise to John, but if ever a lie was called for, it was now. He took a breath, looked right at John, and said:

“I've never been in love.” 

“Never.”

“Never.”

John nodded a little, holding his gaze. “Want to ask me?”

“To tell me a secret?” John nodded again. “Not necessary. Truth or dare, John?”

“Ask me, Sherlock.”

_ What is going on?  _ Sherlock put his glass down. He had clearly had enough scotch for the evening. “John. I really don't need--”

John raised a hand, and Sherlock trailed off, waiting. “What if I need, Sherlock?” Sherlock’s heart rate had sped up, but John sat placidly across from him, his expression open, his feet still in Sherlock’s lap. “Ask me.”

“Will you...tell me a secret?” Sherlock silently congratulated himself on managing to ask the question without a single hitch in his voice.

Something flashed in John’s eyes, and his mouth crooked a little. “I'm in love.” He took a deep breath and glanced briefly away before bringing his eyes back to Sherlock’s. “Are you...well. Are you sure that your secret was...the right one? The secret you wanted to choose?”

Sherlock's head was spinning now, and he knew it wasn't the scotch. John couldn't be telling him what he seemed to be telling him.

Could he?

Sherlock began to replay the entire night’s conversation in his head. When he failed to reach a solid conclusion, he began going back through his recent encounters with John, one by one. If he just took the variables of each interaction and examined them through a lens of--

His brain ground to a halt when John carefully placed the sole of one foot square in the middle of his chest. 

“Are you sure, Sherlock?”

John’s eyes were warm and his mouth was soft and something was happening but Sherlock must be wrong, he was always wrong, it was never this. His secret was impossible.

Wasn't it?

“John, please don't...please don't ask me.”

But John was already opening his mouth and asking softly, carefully: “Have you really never been in love before? Is that a true secret?”

Sherlock was rather afraid he might vomit, or burst into tears. Each would be equally humiliating. John's eyes, though…

“No.” He admitted hoarsely. “It's not a true secret. I have. Been in love. I...am.”

John lifted his feet from Sherlock’s lap and Sherlock inhaled sharply, ready to deny, to retract, to run--but John was leaning forward, and reaching for his hands.

“Does it need to be a secret anymore?” John asks softly, and his thumbs stroked slowly over Sherlock’s. Sherlock closed his eyes, but John squeezed his hands until he reopened them. He saw certainty in John’s face, and bravery, and...yes. Love.

_ Love. _

“No,” Sherlock breathed, and, clasping John’s hands tighter, tugged.

_ No more secrets. _


	10. John is Good at Deductions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which John looks at all the evidence, and reaches a conclusion.

The third time they ended up sleeping together, John started to suspect something deliberate was going on.

It wasn't immediately obvious. After all, they'd shared a bed--or a couch, or a set of stairs, or a jail cell, or on one memorable occasion a (thankfully disabled) walk-in freezer--many times over the course of their friendship. They needed to sleep (well, John needed to sleep), and sometimes, there just wasn't a lot of space available. So they'd shared, sometimes.

Before the Fall.

Before Mary.

But John never stopped thinking about it.

John knew what Sherlock looked like asleep in the dark, and in full afternoon sun, and in the pale foggy light of morning. He knew that Sherlock slept on his stomach (when he wasn't sleeping on his back) (or his left side). He knew that when the air was very dry, Sherlock snored (just a little) but would become very defensive if you ever brought it up, especially if you called it anything like “little nose wheezes.” He knew that Sherlock’s hair looked ridiculous if he slept on anything but a satin pillowcase; that Sherlock would steal the entire blanket and John’s pillow if given the chance; that Sherlock looked both heartbreakingly lonely and impossibly young when he slept.

What he didn't know was why, when the hotel in Manchester wasn't remotely full three weeks ago, they still ended up in a room with one bed. He'd been too exhausted to ask that night, and was barely able to strip down to vest and pants before collapsing face first and falling asleep. When he'd woken the next morning, Sherlock was up and dressed, but there was a definite head dent in his pillow. It had occurred to him to ask about the bed thing later, but he had decided to just let it go.

After all, he'd found himself wishing Sherlock had still been there when he woke up that morning.

Last Tuesday they'd both fallen asleep on the couch during Ripper Street, which was an accomplishment on John’s part. With Sherlock ranting either about the historical inaccuracies (“even an idiot knows there were no amphetamines in the 1800’s”) or the poor quality of the crime solving (“John, with that much physical evidence even you would have been able to solve the crime without resorting to torturing the suspect”), it was hard to pay attention to the show, let alone doze off during it. He'd woken hours later to find the TV still on (that Victorian railroad show Sherlock liked was on) and Sherlock curled up beside him, with his head in John’s lap. John had looked down and felt such a wave of overwhelming fondness that the only thing he could do was close his eyes and go back to sleep.

When he woke again, it was just past dawn, and Sherlock was gone.

John reflected on these two prior incidents when he woke up in his bed a week later with Sherlock’s body sprawled half on top of his, legs and arms everywhere like an octopus had wandered in through the window seeking refuge. He might buy that this too was just an accident if he hadn't gone to sleep in a bed that contained zero Sherlocks and woken up with one Sherlock twined around him like an invasive vine.

One Sherlock who was awake and staring at him with an unreadable expression on his face.

John decided to employ the science of deduction. He considered the information he had:

  1. Sherlock had deliberately booked them one bed in Manchester despite the hotel having other options
  2. Sherlock had waited for John to fall asleep on the couch and then basically curled up in his lap
  3. Sherlock had waited for John to fall asleep last night and then gotten into bed with him. At some point in the night he had begun to...well...cuddle John in his sleep. He had woken up to find himself draped over John and had not moved before John woke up.
  4. There was ample ( ** _very_** _ample_ , John thought) evidence that Sherlock was enjoying the cuddle, and said evidence was remarkably close to evidence of John’s own enjoyment.



“John, I--”

“Quiet, Sherlock. I'm deducing.”

That statement was enough to make Sherlock snap his mouth closed. John would remember that in future.5. John was in love with Sherlock, and had been for a very long time.

  1. John was in love with Sherlock, and had been for a very long time.


  1. John had reasons to believe that Sherlock was in love with him as well, not the least of which being the best man speech at his wedding. And all the “accidental” bed sharing.


  1. John was no longer married, thanks to Mycroft’s speedy work after Mary’s arrest.


  1. John had completed therapy, moved back to Baker Street, and was ready to get on with his life.



“We should kiss now,” he concluded.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, but John could see the hope and fear warring in his eyes. “That’s your deduction?”

“It is.”

Sherlock swallowed, and then looked down at John’s chest. “Are you certain?” He asked, very quietly.  
John nudged Sherlock’s chin up with his fingers and then pressed soft, careful kisses to his forehead, temples, cheekbones, and nose, before--finally--bringing their mouths together.

Long moments later, Sherlock raised his head from John’s. His mouth was wet, and his hair had the marks of John’s fingers in it, and he looked relieved and overwhelmed and happier than John had ever seen him.

“I'm quite good at deductions now,” John grinned. He expected a derisive laugh or, at the very least, a scoff in response, but instead, Sherlock leaned down and took his mouth again.

Quite good, John thought, and let the feeling of Sherlock in his arms carry him away.


	11. Terrified

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One cannot be paralyzed by fear forever.

_ I think I'm in love with you, and I'm terrified. _

The first time this thought came to John, he was curled in a ball in his bed, wondering if he'd ever feel warm again, and thinking about Sherlock’s face when he'd grabbed Moriarty and told him to run. He wasn't afraid because Sherlock was a man; most of his relationships and sexual experiences had been with women, but he'd known since before the army that he was somewhere between a 2 and a 3 on the Kinsey scale. He wasn't afraid because loving Sherlock would open him up to more danger; their friendship alone did that and John wouldn't give that up for anything. He was a little afraid of what would happen if (when) Sherlock didn't reciprocate, but he thought they could probably survive that in the end.

The scope of what it would mean to love Sherlock was huge, and uncertain, and John let his fear get the better of him. He pushed the feelings down and moved forward.

The thought resurfaced with Irene fucking Adler and her acres of curves and her expert flirting and her orgasmic text tone and her nap in Sherlock’s bed. Goddamn enigmatic Sherlock, with his nebulous sexual history and his deductions which sometimes looked like flirting and his sad violin compositions. John’s jealousy was hot and bitter and the thought (again) that he might love Sherlock was completely paralyzing. People like Sherlock had a type, and it was not people like John.

He would not be terrified, because he was  _ not in love. _

After Sherlock jumped, John would not allow himself to consider whether or not he had been (was) in love with Sherlock, because to even think about Sherlock at all was to wade into the coldest depths of the darkest ocean. Anytime John got close to those feelings, he could feel the waves closing over his head. He couldn't love Sherlock now. It would kill him. And even though the idea of living in a world with no Sherlock in it was the bleakest future he could imagine, he had to find a way to push on unafraid. He could not give into the terror, because he would not survive it.

He wasn't terrified to be in love with Mary, because he wasn't. Not really. He loved the idea of her, and the tidy future she promised him, and the fact that being with her didn't terrify him in the least.

Not until he looked up at his wedding as Sherlock loved him in front of everyone, unflinching and unafraid, and he realized that after all this time he might still be in love with his best friend and not with the woman he'd just pledged his life to. And the merest hint of that mistake was the most terrifying thing of all, so he waltzed with his (pregnant) wife and he went on a honeymoon and he came home and just stopped calling Sherlock.

And that was terrifying too.

John pushed on, not being in terrifying love with Sherlock. He didn't love him as he pulled him out of a drug den, and he didn't love him when Janine walked out of his bedroom.

(He tried not to love him when Mary shot him, but couldn't tell the various layers of terror apart. And then he was terrified all the time.)

When it was over--finally over--he was once again curled on his bed at 221B, and the thought ran through his head again and again:

_ I think I'm in love with you, and I'm terrified. _

But was he so terrified that he would give this up again?

Somehow he found himself standing up, and opening his bedroom door, and descending the stairs to the sitting room. It was 2 o’clock in the morning, but Sherlock was awake (of course Sherlock was awake) and John knew: he was waiting.

“I think I'm in love with you, and I'm terrified.” He was amazed at how steady his voice was.

“Think?” 

John was quiet after Sherlock’s low question. He owed him the truth--hell, after everything they'd gone through, he owed him far more than that. But tonight, he could begin with the truth.

“I'm in love with you,” he said, and then smiled ruefully. “Definitely terrified, though.”

“Would it help to know that I am in love with you as well?”

The sun was rising right in the flat, or maybe just inside John’s heart. “It would.”

Sherlock stepped forward and reached out his hands. “I'm in love with you, and I am, I must confess, more than a little terrified.”

John took Sherlock’s hands in both of his and stared down at them for a long moment. They could have this, now. After everything, after all the long years and the dangers and separations and misunderstandings, this could still be theirs. It wasn't too late.

In the end, there was nothing to be terrified of.

 


	12. Joint Delusion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It really only works if they do it together.

_ “Marry me.” _

_ “Oh my Goooooooood yes! Yes!” _

John watched the young man jump up from the grass and grab his new fiancée up, swinging her around before setting her down on her feet and kissing her soundly. There was a pang in his heart as he watched them, trying to remember if he had ever in his life felt that happy--that hopeful--that young. If he had, it had been a very long time. Before Mary, and Magnussen, and the Fall, and Moriarty. Perhaps in those early days, between the cabbie and the pool, when it really had felt like him and Sherlock against the world. Like they were invincible, untouchable, unbreakable, as long as they were together.

None of those things had turned out to be true, in the end.

John turned away from the still-kissing couple (who needed to take it inside now, before Lestrade noticed and had someone go over to scare them with a threat of indecency just for fun). His eyes fell on Sherlock, who was dictating something for Dimmock to write down. It was a gorgeous day--one of those rare London early spring days where you had a perfect blue sky and puffy white clouds and the kind of filtered sunlight that made everyone look lovely.

Sherlock didn't need the sunlight to look lovely, but it lit him perfectly anyway, as if he were on a stage and John was an audience of one. It was still chilly enough to wear a coat, and the collar of the Belstaff formed a perfect frame, as always, for the long pale line of Sherlock’s throat and the unusual beauty of his face. It was getting harder to pretend he wasn't looking at Sherlock in moments like these.

It was getting harder to pretend he wasn't loving Sherlock in  _ every  _ moment.

There had been so many times when John had been sure Sherlock loved him. Even after his marriage--hell,  _ at his wedding _ \--he'd looked at Sherlock and wondered why it had never happened for them. So much of it was his fault. It was almost entirely his fault, if he was being honest with himself. With the exception of that very first night, he had always been the one denying and evading and running. What reason had he ever given Sherlock that he was trustworthy enough to have his heart?

The young couple was still kissing, and it was hard to be cynical in the face of so much happiness--even for a committed curmudgeon like John. He watched them for another minute, silently hoping that they would always be able to keep a piece of this day alive in their relationship. The world needed more people disgustingly, openly in love, not fewer. 

His phone chimed with an incoming text, and he fished it out of his pocket, thumbing it on with one hand. 

_ Having a hard time maintaining the veil of cynicism? _

John glanced up and back over to Sherlock, who was looking down at his phone rather than at him. Another text appeared.

_ Would it help if I deduced the state of their relationship and as a result the length of their marriage for you? _

John smiled down at the phone.  **_No, you git, it would not. Leave the deluded young people alone._ **

_ I am surprised at you, John. That is the sort of thing I am often chided for saying. _

John sighed. Sherlock was right, of course. John had always been the one to stand up for the rights of people to believe in their own happiness, and Sherlock had always been the one mocking them for their sentiment.

_ I am...saddened...to think that the experiences of the last year have so fundamentally changed who you are. _

John sucked in a breath, looking over again. Sherlock had walked away from the forensics team, but was still turned away so John couldn't see his face. Unexpected tears stung at his eyes, and he blinked them away. 

_ You are, after all, the only person who has ever been capable of making me hope for anything.  _

John’s heart began to pound. This couldn't possibly be the kind of conversation it seemed to be. Sherlock had been...gentler...with him since he'd moved back in, certainly. They'd been more careful with one another, trying to find their footing again. Re-learning how to be a team; how to be flatmates; how to be together every day instead of just when John could get away from his wife or his job.

He began and erased several return messages. They were outside, in a park, with the police. They were at a crime scene, for fuck’s sake. Finally he settled on:

**_What are you hoping for now?_ ** He hit send, and looked back at Sherlock just in time to see him turn slightly toward him, read John’s text, and roll his eyes.

_ Don't be an idiot, John.  _

Sherlock finally looked up and met his eyes, and John could almost physically feel the weight of that look. 

**_We're at a crime scene, Sherlock._ **

Another eyeroll.  _ I've tried giving you this look at home, John, but you've been very busy tiptoeing around me and haven't noticed. This moment seemed...opportune.  _ John watched him slide his eyes over to the couple, who had given up kissing in favor of near-obscene clinging, and then back to John.  _ What are you hoping for, John? _

John took a deep breath and closed his eyes. His wife was dead and there was no baby and he was back at Baker Street and Sherlock was staring at him at a crime scene with what seemed to be/might be/ _ oh fuck could be  _ love, and it was all he wanted and everything that kept him up and night and--

Another text alert.

_ If you could hurry along your inner turmoil, we could go home and get to the part where I say that I love you, and you say it back, and then there could be kissing. _

John felt an enormous, ridiculous grin spread over his face, and looked back up to see a smaller version of the same on Sherlock’s face.

**_You're suggesting joint delusion, then?_ **

He watched Sherlock chuckle, and his heart soared.

_ A lifetime of it.  _ Sherlock then jerked his head toward the road and the line of waiting cabs, waved a hand to Lestrade, and walked off, already raising his arm. 

With a last glance at the embracing couple, John followed him.


	13. First Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They say Hogwarts changes everything, but for Sherlock, it starts on the train platform.

_ Mycroft had Mummy and Dad delay my boarding deliberately,  _ Sherlock fumed, as he peered into one compartment after another, finding them all either full or inhabited by people he decidedly did not want to make his first journey to Hogwarts with. He was certain Mycroft expected him to sit with Lucian Bole and Peregrine Derrick, but as he was not remotely interested in Slytherin, Quidditch, or being a bullying arsehole, he pretended he hadn't seen them waving on the platform.

It was only because he had been determinedly looking in the opposite direction that he'd seen the blonde Gryffindor boy. He was definitely older than Sherlock; he was standing with an awkward looking Muggle mother and a scowling Muggle sister, but he was exchanging loud, happy hugs with Molly Hooper and Gregory Lestrade, who were both third years from Pureblood families that his family had known forever. Molly was nice enough, embodying every stereotype about Hufflepuffs in existence. Sherlock hadn't spent a lot of time talking to Greg, as he seemed to mostly be interested in Quidditch and hanging around Molly, but he'd never treated Sherlock poorly. So whoever Greg’s fellow Gryffindor was, at least he had decent taste in friends.

The boy turned his head, then, and caught Sherlock’s eyes. Sherlock was absolutely mortified as the boy lifted his hand in a little wave of acknowledgment, and whirled back to his family.

“...must check his robes, Mummy; I can't have him embarrassing me.” Sherlock rolled his eyes as Mycroft straightened the Head Boy badge on his robes, tightened the knot on his green and silver tie, dropped a perfunctory kiss on their mother’s cheek, and headed for the train. Sherlock submitted to several more minutes of their mother fussing over his uniform before he was finally allowed to head into the nearest car.

After dodging Bole and Derrick, Sherlock quickly passed several more full cars and had just started working himself up to worried when someone reached out and snagged his wrist. “Oi, Sherlock, get in here,” Greg said, and pulled Sherlock inside the compartment and down on the seat next to Molly and across from Mike Stamford, another Hufflepuff he'd known casually most of his life.

“Hi, Sherlock! I saw you on the platform with your parents. Are you excited for the Sorting? Does Mycroft expect you'll be in Slytherin, too?” Molly would have kept prattling on, but Sherlock let a slight sneer wrinkle his nose.

“I'm going to be in Ravenclaw,” he said. “I've already deduced it.”

“Is that some sort of magic you lot don't tell Muggles about?” asked an unfamiliar voice from behind Greg’s shoulder. Sherlock looked over and saw the blonde boy peering over at him. Sherlock felt his heart rate speed up, though he didn't know why. The boy was completely ordinary--sandy blonde hair; dark blue eyes; short and stocky build visible where his robes gaped open. There was nothing about him that Sherlock should have found remarkable, and yet he was suddenly certain that this boy would prove him wrong.

Nervously, he opened his mouth and started rattling off the steps he'd taken to determine that the Sorting Hat would put him in Ravenclaw. The strange boy stared at him, and as the look of disbelief on his face grew, Sherlock talked faster until at last he ran out of things to say. Sherlock held his breath as the boy and Stamford exchanged a glance. 

“Yep,” Stamford grinned. “He's always like that.”

“Amazing,” Sherlock was astonished to hear, and then a hand was being extended to him. “John Watson.”

Sherlock numbly took the proffered hand and shook it. “Sherlock Holmes,” he managed.

“Can you do that--deducing?--with other things?” John asked, open curiosity on his face.

Molly nudged Sherlock in the side with her elbow. “Tell him where he went on holiday, Sherlock!” 

As Sherlock looked back at John, a small, hesitant smile lifting the corners of his mouth, Mycroft slipped away down the corridor of the train toward the Prefect’s carriage. He'd chosen well, throwing John Watson in Sherlock’s path. The no-nonsense Muggleborn would be a valuable ally for his sensitive, outspoken little brother.

He couldn't do anything about the unfortunate upcoming Ravenclaw sorting--Sherlock had deduced that one correctly, no doubt--but then, one couldn't fix all the world’s problems at once.

At least not from the Hogwarts Express.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm [msdisdain](http://msdisdain.tumblr.com/) on tumblr. I post ficlets there before I post them here.


End file.
